


it's just the nature of keeping you close

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Gen, and the one time she needs it herself, everyone babey, four times thirteen offers some hugs and support, one shots, ryan is babey, thasmin, thirteen is babey, thirteenth doctor x yasmin khan, yaz is babey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 08:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: a series of short one-shots following the premise of 'four times thirteen offers a hug and the one time she needs one herself'happy graduation gee!!!!! (albeit a lil early but shh) ur fab and brilliant and ur one of the main people who has kept me writing during this hiatus so i totally owe you one!!!! i hope u have a great day n enjoy this fic!!!!thank you for betaing @TheRainbowFox !!! ur a star!!!





	1. Yaz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yasminkhxns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasminkhxns/gifts).

The reverberations and echoes of that fatal gunshot still ring through her bones hours after their initial chorus, interrupting any alternative path of thought in impromptu bursts of overwhelming sensation. 

Yaz nibbles at the meal the Doctor had gladly and expertly cooked up after their most recent adventure aboard her ship, chin cupped in her palm and gaze cast downward as she swills the fried vegetables around with her fork. 

Mouth full, the time lord chatters away to Ryan about a past mishap in the kitchen, but Yaz only picks up on the words ‘explosive flour’ through the haze her mind has granted upon her thoughts. 

When the Doctor glances in her direction, three anecdotes later, her head tips to the side like a puppy confused over a new command, green eyes inexplicably soft. 

The smile Yaz plasters over her lips is false and dismissive, and her gaze drops the minute the Doctor moves to question it. 

If it’s space she needs, the Doctor can’t refuse her. She turns back, launching into the history behind cutlery, and Yaz can hear the twin sighs from Graham and Ryan before she even needs to look at their fondly rolling eyes. 

Her food is cold and her insides churn while Yaz dwells and dwells and dwells on the day’s events. It takes another empathetic glance from her best friend for something inside her to splinter and fissure between her ribs. She slips from her seat, the red dust still clinging to the soles of her boots a harsh reminder of their earlier actions. “I’m just — I’m just going to fetch something from my room. I’ll be right back.” 

Three sets of sympathetic eyes follow her from the TARDIS kitchen and into the adjoining corridor, and if they hear the waver to her voice, they don’t say anything. 

“Should I —” the Doctor starts, a tell-tale sniffle filtering through her heightened hearing and forcing her to her feet. Her brows pinch together and her smile falls and she’s close to running right after her when Graham reaches out, touching a hand to her elbow. 

“Might be best to give her a minute or so, Doc,” he proposes gently, the wisdom in his weathered eyes giving the Time Lord a run for her money. 

“But she’s —” the Doctor starts, then sinks back into her seat with a despondent sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She glances at Ryan’s watch, tilting her head. “Two minutes.”

She lasts a minute and a half before she gives in to the weight on her chest and between her ribs. Her feet move on instinct towards Yaz’s room aboard the ship, each stride more determined than the last. 

Her movements falter at the last turning before her room, where sensitive hearing zones in on muffled cries and the Time Lord’s weathered hearts break once more. A dull ache settles beneath her ribs as she steps forward, knuckles beating in a slow rap against her bedroom door. “Yaz? It’s just me. You reckon I could come in?”

The sound of shuffling feet echoes through the engineered gold before Yaz opens the door ajar, peering puffy eyelids and damp cheeks through the gap she makes. She sniffs, once, and averts her gaze.

“Oh,  _ Yaz,”  _ the Doctor sighs softly, slipping through the door when Yaz defeatedly moves aside. 

Yaz settles on the edge of her bed, toying with the threads of her blanket and hanging her head when tears cloud her vision once more. She’s meant to be strong like the Doctor; to be brave and unaffected, not hidden away in her room dwelling on moments which cannot be altered, grieving for people she’s lost who she never should’ve met in the first place. But it’s  _ so much _ , and she’s only now understanding what travelling with the Doctor means — the sacrifices, the guilt, the relief. She doesn’t know how her best friend manages to keep so light and hopeful throughout ceaseless storms. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” the Doctor prompts a minute later, the mattress dipping at Yaz’s side when she perches next to her. “Or — you know, you could just cry? Really, properly cry. Let it all out — there’s nothing wrong with that.” She reaches out, moulding her palm over Yaz’s knee to give a reassuring squeeze. “And I’m certainly not going to judge. Crying is brilliant, especially when it’s about someone as brave as Prem.”

Yaz notices, somewhere in the muddle her mind has dissipated into, that only in quiet moments like this is the Doctor affectionate — her gentle, comforting touches the only medicine Yaz needs. So, tears falling freely now, Yaz meets her gaze through clouded vision, hoping her request filters through the space between their minds rather than tumbling from quivering lips.

Reaching out, the Doctor catches one of many tears beneath the pad of her thumb, features softening to a frankly offensive level. “Would — would you like a hug, Yaz?”

When the other woman doesn’t respond right away, the Doctor cringes, resisting the temptation to grasp ahold of time itself and retract her words. 

But then Yaz turns, offering up a teary smile as she shifts to better fall into open, waiting arms. The contact is enough to leave her stomach reeling and emotions unreserved. She sinks into her chest with a shuddering sob, burying forlorn features against her best friend’s shoulder. 

They sit like this, wrapped up in each other, lost to the solar systems around them until heaving sobs melt into quiet sniffs and, eventually, the hopeful coax of laughter from an off-hand comment about the history of tears. 

Trust the Doctor to peel away her soul from its usually caged space, and then just as fleetingly fix it back together with the simple act of her presence. 

She’s millions of miles from her flat in Sheffield, but when the pressure of soft lips mould and sear against her forehead in open comfort reserved only for her, Yasmin Khan has never felt so at home. 


	2. Najia

She’s bored. Truly and utterly bored. There are seven trays of freshly baked cookies gathered on the console and an entirely handmade unicycle leant against a crystal pillar at her side and the Doctor is _ bored. _

She’d visited Sappho earlier in the day, who had raved and gloried over her hands and hair and eyes until heat engulfed her form and she’d had to make her escape through grand gardens. Even before her getaway, the lyricist had handed her a note, the poem scrawled over bound parchment a gift to whoever had stolen her hearts already. 

The knowing look she’d sent in her direction continues to confuse her, hours later. 

“Who has my hearts, old girl?” the Doctor chimes into the golden ridges and engineered metal above her head, her wistful wonderings interrupted by a sudden jerk of the ship’s engines. The scanner lights up with an image of Sheffield, nine o’clock at night in mid-autumn, year twenty-nineteen. “_ Sheffield _? Sheffield has my hearts?” she scoffs in question, then thinks to its inhabitants, the three individuals she calls her bests friends, and then, “Makes sense, actually. Brilliant deduction, love.” 

When she slips through the doors, the evening breeze lifts her locks and obscures her vision, but she can still make out the large, colourful complex of flats her best friend calls home. 

The steps slip beneath her feet two at a time as she makes the familiar journey to the Khan’s front door. She bounces on her toes once she’s pressed the buzzer, tucking her hands into her pockets when another gust of chilly air makes its presence known. 

A pair of footsteps and the shadow of dark hair later, the door swings open to reveal a slightly tousled Najia, lips parted on words she quickly retracts. It’s as though she’d been expecting someone else entirely. Her gaze flits from the blonde to the empty space surrounding her. “Is she not with you?” 

The Doctor blinks, her brain short-circuiting. “Yaz? No, I was — I was actually just coming to see her. She’s not here?” 

“She’s been in work all afternoon, she should’ve been home — an hour ago,” Najia divulges in obvious concern, brow setting in the fashion her daughter has undoubtedly inherited. 

“Well, then, we’d better go and find her, huh?” the Doctor shrugs as if it’s the most obvious solution, motioning over her shoulder. “The Doctor and Yaz’s mum, on the case.” 

Najia turns to grab her coat from the hanger behind her, then slips from the flat. “You know where she could be?” 

“I think I might, yeah,” the Doctor quips, already leading the way, sonic held aloft. “If I can connect up to her mobile phone signature, we’ll find her in no time.”

Najia blames the blonde’s long limbs for her own inability to catch up while she saunters into the lift. 

“Bingo!” the Doctor exclaims at the ground floor, the device in her hand giving off a spark and a faint whirr. “She’s in an estate just outside the town centre, lovely chip shop nearby — five-star rating, too! I love chips.” 

“Doctor, please keep on track,” Najia chides, but there’s relief in her tone. She leads the way, jingling her keys as though the alien is a puppy needing a walk. “Come on, we’ll take the car.” 

“Brilliant! Ooh! We should make a team name,” the Doctor slips into the passenger seat and reels the window down as soon as the engine is running, then quickly closes it. “Bit nippy, actually. Always liked a breeze on my face, though.” 

Despite her rambling words, Najia catches the flash of worry in her eyes in the mirror as she pulls onto the main road. Her skittish nature is a helpful coping mechanism, though, Najia must admit. 

The rest of the journey passes by quietly, with the exception of an occasional whirr and buzz of the sonic and the Doctor’s directions. By the time they turn the final corner, though, gasps fall free in unison. 

At the end of the street, a family home is ablaze. Flames lick at the roof and second-floor windows, and when Najia shakily pulls up, the sound of desperate cries fill the air. 

There’s one police vehicle at the scene — Yaz’s, both women register in sinking realisation.

“Oh my _ God,” _Najia breathes, helpless, feet moving before she permits them. 

The Doctor approaches the distraught looking couple in a matter of strides, taking occasional glances toward the burning building behind her. Her sonic slips into her pocket if only so she can focus. “What’s happened? Is there anyone in there?”

“Our daughter,” the floppy-haired man all but whispers. “The police officer — she’s in there too, trying to find her — but —” as if to make its presence known again, the fire cracks and terrorises the structure of their home. With a wheeze of weathered beams, a small section of the roof caves in. 

“_ Olivia!” _the mother cries, surging forwards, only to land on her knees against harsh pavement which bites at her skin. 

“Doctor, what do we do?” Najia swallows against the panic rising in her chest, charging forward a step rather than waiting any longer to watch her world crash and burn before her. 

The Doctor catches Najia’s sleeve before she can get any closer, her hold firm. “Don’t even think about it, Yaz’s mum.”

Najia doesn’t have the time to correct her, turning to shoot an anguished grimace her way. “Yaz is in there, Doctor! What do you expect me to do? I can’t just stand here.” 

“She’s not lost yet! Yaz is _ brilliant. _She’s smart and annoyingly selfless but she’ll get out of there, I'm sure of it,” the Doctor declares the words as fact, gripping Najia’s shoulders, imploring her to see sense. 

  
When, less than a minute later, ash-dusted fluorescent yellow gives way to Yaz’s form in the doorway of the house with a coughing, spluttering but very _ alive _ child in her arms, the Doctor _ laughs _ gleefully, drawing Najia into a hug through pure elation. “Did I mention she was brilliant?”


	3. Petra

Waves roll with the midnight breeze in low sighs and whispers against the fishing vessel’s lower decks, melodising with the shallow breaths of its sleeping inhabitants — all but two. 

Petra shifts, slipping a weathered note from her pocket, its corners dog-eared and its surface creased. The material has grown yellow with its frequent unfolding and assessment. Lines litter the page, curving here and halting there in the form of a sketch. 

When the Doctor takes a curious glance over the teenager’s shoulder to peak at the paper she’d been glancing at intermittently throughout the day, the teen stiffens slightly. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

Petra’s sun-bleached blonde waves tumble over her features when she turns to regard the woman who’d rudely interrupted her and her father’s fishing trip only a day earlier — amidst claims of  _ sea monsters _ and  _ vortexes erupting beneath the sea _ . It had been… an  _ eventful _ day, to say the least. “Not really, no,” she states, voice hushed in respect of slumber. 

“A run-in with the Praxi will do that to you,” the Time Lord chuckles, shuffling up to rest against the empty barrel at Petra’s side. 

“How come your friends are so calm about it all?” Petra asks, thumbing at the blanket still curled over her crossed legs until the material de-threads beneath her fingertips. “They didn’t even look surprised when it first attacked.” 

“They’re pretty used to it by now — the chaos, the danger. It… concerns me sometimes,” the Doctor admits, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck in a movement Petra recognises as anxiety. “But they’re okay. They’ll be okay. Should be fine.” 

“They’re strong,” Petra murmurs, quiet, pensive. She watches the way her new friend’s gaze refuses to lift from the woman curled up to her right side, dark hair flayed over her pillow while she sleeps silently. “Especially Yaz.”

As if caught red-handed, the Doctor’s gaze averts and she straightens up, embarrassment warming her cheeks. When Yaz shifts, though, nestling closer in her slumber with a faint sigh, the Doctor can’t help herself — she moves her hand to drift through dark strands in a soothing caress. 

“I’m still here, you know,” Petra teases gently, and when the Time Lord turns back, biting down against her bottom lip to keep an affectionate smile at bay, she’s met with a look of absolute longing. “You should tell her.”

“Tell her what?” the Doctor quips in utter obliviousness, manicured eyebrows creasing. 

“How you feel,” Petra answers in earnest, and even in the limited light available, the Doctor can tell she’s smirking. She’s been doing a lot of that in her and Yaz’s presence, as though she knows something they don’t. Apparently, this is it. 

“I will, I’m just —” the alien starts, smiling when Yaz relaxes beneath her touch. 

“Stalling?” Petra interrupts in a quiet flurry of restrained laughter. 

“ — Waiting for the right time,” she finishes, shooting Petra a glare which only serves to heighten her amusement. 

Unknowingly, her laughter rouses the woman curled at the Doctor’s side, but she remains close-lidded and silent in her wakefulness. The hand in her hair continues its efforts, much to her pleasant surprise. She has to resist the urge to lean into the pads of her fingers, but she’s distracted by the words exchanged just shy of her now heightened hearing in the dark. 

“If you don’t tell her sometime soon, I think you might burst,” Petra giggles, nudging the Doctor’s elbow. 

“Hey, you know what? I think you should take your own advice sometime, Petra,” the Doctor counters, tilting her head, slipping into the only shard of light penetrating the cramped room. When Petra simply gawps, lips forming a perfect ‘o’, she laughs gently. “Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen the sketch you’ve been admiring since we got here, love. It’s pretty obvious there’s something there.”

Petra reels back, sinking against the barrel with a small sigh. She isn’t as subtle as she’d thought. “How could you tell?”

“You get a feel for these things,” the Doctor responds, voice a tone softer this time, empathy rolling off of her in waves. “So, what’s her name?”

“Mia,” Petra whispers after a minute of quiet; of contemplation; of renewed trust. The name is said with the weight of the world behind it.

“That’s a beautiful name — from the Slavic word Mila, meaning "dear” or “darling”, I believe.” the Doctor reels the words off as though reading from a dictionary, then arches a brow. “How romantic.”

“Ugh, don’t go all gross and soppy on me now — nobody else is awake to tease you about it,” Petra chuckles, curling her blanket closer when fatigue seeps back into her bones like oil on water, infecting each muscle in turn until her eyelids slow their motions with each blink.

A mild scoff of laughter melts into the chorus of waves swelling around the side of the boat.

“Why don’t we make a deal?” the Doctor proposes, reaching out to tuck Petra’s blanket higher with her free hand. When Petra sleepily glances in her direction, offering up a curious nod, she continues. “If I agree to tell Yaz how I feel at the next appropriate moment, you have to agree to tell Mia.”

There’s a beat before Petra nods, assured, accepted, comforted. “It’s a deal.” 

  
The Doctor beams, sweeping flailing arms around the teenager’s form in pride only a parent would understand — the notion, in itself, raises questions in Petra’s head, even as she sinks into her warm embrace. “Brilliant,” she laughs, giving a squeeze. “Just  _ brilliant _ .”


	4. Ryan

“It was my fault, I took too long to get to the teleport and by the time I did they’d already — they’d already captured her. It was my fault,” Ryan announces upon their return to the TARDIS, head hung low in defeat. His feet scuff along the floor like a child told they can’t stay longer at the park and his hands remain stuffed into his pockets. Internally, he curses his disability and its constant attention-seeking nature. 

“But we  _ saved _ her, Ryan! We still managed it!” Yaz counters, reaching out to grasp at his forearm in compassionate comfort. “And don’t say you had no part in her rescue because you  _ literally _ helped her to escape in the first place. We shouldn’t have even found out she was captive had it not been for you.” 

Still, Ryan perches, dejected, solemn, on the newest addition to the console room — a deep purple sofa. Instead of countering her argument, he remains quiet, reminiscent,  _ regretful _ . 

“Stop beating yourself up, son,” Graham murmurs at his side when the Doctor launches her ship into flight with its usual shudder and groan, casting a concerned glance in his direction between piloting. 

Ryan simply sinks into the furniture, despite the rocks and jerks sending the room into a familiar simulation. If he’d just been a little quicker, a little more steady on his feet, the princess of High Tribena would’ve been rescued a hell of a bloody lot quicker. But no — today was not his day, and a loss of balance kept him from her recapture and his own pride. 

The TARDIS lands with a wheeze in Sheffield, twenty-nineteen, and when Ryan moves to leave first, to sulk in his misery and wallow in self-hatred in the solace of his own home, the Doctor’s touch on his shoulder halts him in his mission. 

“You two head off, I need to have a quick chat with Ryan and then I'll let you have him back, I promise,” the Doctor announces to the rest of their affectionately named ‘fam’, her tone teasing but the look in her eyes indecipherable. She turns to Ryan, then, “If that’s okay with you?” 

Mutedly, Ryan nods, watching the other two offer up sympathetic smiles before they slip through the doors with talk of tea and biscuits. 

Once they’re alone, Ryan’s thoughts spiral into overdrive, and before the Doctor can open her mouth to speak, his own plough forward. “Are you going to kick me out?” 

The Doctor looks momentarily stunned, but her expression soon softens, evens out, gentle creases lining the space between her brows when they furrow in confusion. She can understand his thought process, but she also curses it for limiting one of her best friend’s confidence to a flat zero. “This isn’t bootcamp at X-Factor, Ryan,” she teases, rocking on her toes and flicking a set of switches on the console at her side. The TARDIS gives a faint grumble as the engines start churning beneath their feet. “And no, I am  _ definitely _ not ‘kicking you out’, you haven’t done anything today but be an absolute help, as usual. Plus, you know how I feel about violence. These boots are going nowhere near you.”

Her latter comment, although he wills not to soften so quickly, makes Ryan scoff under his breath, granting the Doctor a tight-lipped smile. “You’d probably somehow manage to fall over, anyway,” he retorts, teasing but grateful. “Yaz  _ smiled _ at you earlier and you tripped over your own feet.”

“My laces were undone! How was I meant to walk with my laces undone?” the Doctor argues, cheeks warming under the golden hues of the console room. 

“You were stationary, Doctor.” Ryan snorts at the look of pure embarrassment on his best friend’s face, the topic providing a pleasant distraction from his earlier despondency, “You were  _ literally  _ just standing there.” 

“Oi! You don’t get to turn this on me,” the Doctor counters, rounding the console to continue her piloting — to where, exactly, Ryan has no idea. But he trusts her, inexplicably. “I wanted to show you something, actually, if you’re up for it?”

Ryan slips towards the console to take a look at the scanner, but all he sees within the radius are asteroids. He turns to the alien smiling nervously at his side. “Where are we?” 

“Go and take a look,” she implores, motioning towards the double doors keeping the universe at bay. 

He doesn’t take much encouragement, padding towards the blue panels of wood in childlike anticipation which rolls off him in waves. When he swings them open, asteroids gather and drift between planets like moons in orbit, never touching but ever-present. “What’s all this about, Doctor?”

Her presence is at his side in minutes, and she leans against the doorframe to allow her coat to billow behind her. “Can you see that asteroid, just there?” She points out, leaving Ryan to follow the line of her index towards a mass of oxygen and silicon to his right. “Want to know what it’s called?” 

Cluelessly, Ryan nods. He doesn’t quite know where she’s going with this, so he prepares himself for one of her grand metaphors. 

“Asteroid 7102018, also known as Grace,” she reveals quietly, gaze shifting to his features to observe their transition from confusion to unrestrained awe. 

Ryan doesn’t register he’s crying until the Doctor hands over a wad of tissues from her never-ending pockets, anxiety resonating from her form. “Is it okay?”

“ _ Okay? _ ” Ryan repeats, words wavering, his smile brimming with emotion he typically keeps locked up. “It’s —” he starts, lips parting on adjectives he can’t find. “I honestly don’t know how to respond,” he admits, reaching up to wipe at sodden cheeks. 

“I installed a shortcut in the controls,” the Doctor divulges, tilting her head as the asteroid moves slowly and effortlessly amongst the rest of its kind. “So whenever you’re feeling put-out by something, or you just miss her,  _ please _ let me know and I can bring you right here.” Her tone is nothing but warm and impossibly kind, expression a mixture of pride, sorrow and… maybe even a little maternal. “If she could see you now, she’d be so proud.”

Speechless, Ryan simply basks in the sight, in the familiar warmth only his nan used to radiate. Tears fall freely now, pausing at the corner of his lips before they trickle down to his chin. 

When the Time Lord wraps her arms around Ryan’s neck in a hug, it doesn’t feel like one of Grace’s, but he can’t bring himself to mind too much when he sinks against her. 

“You’re stronger than you know, Ryan Sinclair,” the Doctor murmurs from where her chin has hooked over his shoulder. “And you are so, so loved.”


	5. Thirteen

“It’s fine. It’s alright. They’re good people, they’ll sort this out. No blood will spill as long as Theriah’s in power. She won’t let it,” the Doctor muses as they board her ship, the TARDIS’s welcoming thrum a pleasing change to the tense atmosphere of an impending war they are absolutely unable to stop. She doesn’t know whether the words spilling past her lips are to her benefit, or her best friends’. 

She doesn’t quite want to find out. 

Reassured, though, the rest of them wander inside and linger at the console, chattering between themselves. 

Yaz, ever the receptive one of the group, glances back to witness a flash of dread come and go over the Doctor’s features. It worries her more than it should. “You okay?” 

“Mm-hm, just a headache. Stressful day, huh, gang?” the Doctor hops up to join them, reaching up to massage her temple when it protests. 

A chorus of agreement echoes from her friends, who look as though they’re awaiting a storm with no shelter to cower beneath. 

“Oi, Yaz. You wanna watch one of the new films in the cinema room? The ones that fell on us last time we were in there?” Ryan quips, earning what sounds like a huff from the console between them.

“I’d love to, yeah. Doctor? Graham? You in?” Yaz regards them both in question, popping her brows in anticipation. 

The Doctor softens somewhat — as always when Yaz’s wide smile is sent in her direction -, but she ducks her head, shaking it regretfully. “I should get some rewiring done.” She motions to the main console and its components with a smile, but there’s no brightness to be found there. 

“Didn’t you do that yesterday?” Yaz asks with a tilt of her head. 

“Oh, yeah,” the Doctor admits, rolling her shoulders in a shrug. “But there’s always something to fix. She’s an old girl now.” She pats the lever next to her hip in affection, glancing up to where golden metal meets the domed expanse above. 

“Grandad? You up for it?” Ryan asks when the Doctor seems adamant not to join — he can’t blame her, and if all she needs is some space, they have to respect that. 

“As long as there’s no clown this time, I’m happy to oblige,” Graham warns, sending a pointed glare Ryan’s way. 

Breaking into laughter, the three make their way up into endless corridors, footsteps fading into quiet echoes until a series of whispers halt them in their tracks and a returning pair resonate back over metal floors. 

Yaz reappears from around the corner, the uneasy smile gracing her lips an unwelcome, foreign sight.

“Everything alright?” the Doctor takes a step forward, toying with the threads of her sleeve. She’s smiling still, but it’s a little too happy for Yaz’s liking. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just —” Yaz starts, pausing to close the distance between them and lean against the console at her side. “I was just wondering if _ you _ were okay? And, you know — if you want to talk, I'm right here, yeah?” she reels the words from her lips like a torrent, unwilling to give the stubborn, reserved alien a chance to interrupt and dismiss her concerns. “You just seem a bit tense.”

The Doctor, as expected, parts her lips to shrug off her best friend’s quietly worrisome nature, but Yaz seems as though she’s on a mission, so she stops herself out of respect. “Yaz, please. I’m absolutely fine. Peachy.” She shrugs off her coat, crouching to retrieve her welding mask from beneath the console and secure it over blonde locks, bunching it under the pressure of its adjustments and sending her hair into frankly adorable tufts. “Why _ is _peachy a term? Isn’t it a bit weird to think of fruit as a type of mood?” 

Yaz can’t help but laugh, “Suits you down to the ground, then.”

The mask flips over emerald eyes and delicate features, and the Doctor scoffs. “Calling me weird, Yasmin Khan? Thought you were meant to be on my side?” 

Yaz can all but _ hear _ the pout in her voice, so she rolls her eyes fondly. “I’m a police officer, ma’am. I’m not meant to take sides.”

When the Doctor chuckles, the sound echoes within the mask and furthers her amusement until Yaz laughs, too. “Go back to your film, I’ve got wires to burn — I mean re-work. I’ve got wires to re-work.”

“I’m coming back at the first smell of smoke, okay? If you set fire to yourself, I’ll kill you,” Yaz warns chidingly, because one of these days, a simple _ experiment _ isn’t going to be saved by a fire extinguisher, emergency plasters and a soothing cup of tea. 

“Well, I mean, statistically, if I were to set myself on fire, I'd most likely end up—_ ” _

“_ Doctor _,” Yaz interrupts on a laugh which brings a little more light to old eyes. She heads back up into the corridor with a few short hops. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

“Do smoke signals work?” the Doctor teases at her own expense, turning to duck into the alcove beneath the console, toolbox in hand. 

“I meant what I said!” she hears before Yaz disappears completely, footsteps reverberating in her wake. 

As quickly as she leaves, so too do the Doctor’s spirits. 

The evening passes by like leaves in autumn, slowly, unnoticeably, then all at once. 

By the time Yaz ventures to bed, three films later, the sounds of wires sparking and the Doctor’s mutters reassures her enough to slip between cool sheets and settle in. 

Slumber spirals her thoughts into soft murmurings and returned feelings, so much so that when Yaz wakes to a crash in the night, she has to take a few moments to gain her composure and assess her surroundings. 

Another, louder smash fractures through the hinges of her bedroom door and renders her disorientated but too worried not to venture. 

Odd-sock-clad feet pad through the corridor, towards the source in the near darkness, until Yaz can hear more clearly. To her shock, soft cries and sniffles accompany thumps and thuds until the young police officer finds herself stood before the door to the Doctor’s room. She’d only been here once before, when the Doctor had to _ literally _ be carried to bed to catch up on her sleep after a long stint aboard a hospital ship facing disaster. 

At the sound of glass shattering, Yaz reaches for the door handle and slowly, tentatively edges deep blue vinyl open. “Doctor? It’s me, Yaz. Are you o—” 

Her words are cut off by the sight which falls before her. Books lay scattered across the already disorganised bedroom floor, a lamp lays, bulb smashed, at the Time Lord’s side, and the blonde herself is slumped against the frame at the foot of her bed, knees tucked up to her chest. Her head falls to rest against her knees when Yaz steps inside, clicking the door shut behind her. The Doctor’s cries are quiet and restrained, as though she’s embarrassed at being caught.

“Doctor? What’s wrong?” Yaz probes gently, stepping over the splintered glass to quietly settle at her side. She hovers there, first, giving the blonde time to rebuke her advance. 

“I—” the Doctor starts, words muffled, wavering in pitch. “Maybe — maybe today did get to me a little,” she admits, raising her head a touch, chin propped atop crossed arms. “I lost control for a minute there.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Yaz shuffles closer but doesn’t dare reach out until the Doctor is comfortable enough to be on the receiving end of her touch. “Emotions are powerful sometimes, Doctor. I think you taught me that.” 

“I should’ve been able to stop it, Yaz. That war should never have even been a _ possibility,” _the Doctor states dejectedly, turning her face away when tears blur her vision once more. She fists her fingers into the material of her white sleeves to hold back a shuddering sob — rendered unsuccessful within seconds. 

“Doctor, don’t you _ dare _ start on this again,” Yaz chides, using the authoritative tone she usually saves for work. She reaches out, gentle touches turning the Doctor’s head slowly, tentatively in her direction. “You know there was nothing _ any _of us could do, so stop taking all the blame when there's none to take in the first place.” 

Her words are earnest and certain and _ make sense, _and the Doctor falls in love a little more. She blinks slowly, like a feline communicating silent affection to its human companion. The last handful of tears pool in Yaz’s palm, which remains cupped around her strong cheekbone. 

“Now, are you going to let me hug you, or will I have to watch you look all teary-eyed and sad for the rest of the night?” Yaz tilts her head, her expression firm even if her eyes convey her nervousness as clear as day. 

Mutedly, the Doctor nods, peeling her arms from her knees when Yaz shifts to envelope her in comfort and affection. 

“Your hair smells like coconut,” the Doctor murmurs when her cheeks are dry and her hearts have calmed and her mind, for the first time in hours, is utterly clear of guilt and self-deprecation. She still hasn’t pulled away from Yaz’s hold, their forms moulded together like puzzle pieces found opposite sides of time and space, finally honing in on each other. 

“And yours smells like…— burning,” Yaz laughs against the top of her head, biting back a smile she’d been holding at bay since the Doctor first nestled closer minutes earlier, seeking more.

The alien scoffs, moving to pull away until she realises she doesn’t actually want to. 

When they do eventually peel apart, albeit reluctantly, the Doctor chases contact enough to boldly intertwine their fingers. The next few quiet minutes are spent studying each nailbed, each crease of skin, each slender finger before she notices Yaz’s gaze on her. 

“Sometimes I think your hearts are too big for their own good, Doctor,” Yaz muses when brown levels with green in reticent communication. 

“I guess — I guess you should take half the blame,” the Doctor whispers, just loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be considered the revelation of a secret. When Yaz’s lips twist in silent confusion, she continues nervously. “ — since both of them belong to you.” 

A gasp. A series of blinks. An anxious giggle. 

“Is that your way of saying you like me?” Yaz teases, only half-believing her fuelled words. She’s an alien from space with hundreds, maybe thousands of years of saving civilisations under her belt. There’s no way she’s fallen for a human from Sheffield with a handful of girl guide badges and an unsatisfying job. 

“Admittedly, those words weren't meant to leave my mouth, but it’s true. I was being honest,” the Doctor chuckles, the sound a little more anxious than usual. “I guess — I guess the question is —” she pauses to swallow thickly, “ — do you feel the same, Yasmin Khan?” 

Oh. _ Oh. _Yaz’s brain falls into overdrive and she looks for words, a statement as powerful as the Doctor’s own, but all she can find is the increasing urge to shift closer. Her free hand inches up to her neck, then curls around the back of it, fingertips tangling lightly through blonde strands. 

She doesn’t so much hear the Doctor’s intake of breath as she feels it. 

Yaz closes what little distance there is between their bodies, noses brushing while she awaits her affirming nod and soft, keening little noise before her lips press and mould and form against her own. 

Breathless, flushed and re-energised, Yaz rests her forehead against the Doctor’s with a gentle flutter of a sigh against her lips two minutes and thirty seconds later. “Did that answer your question?”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!! kudos and comments always appreciated!!!


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